


What Makes You Mine

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Series: Stories That I Hope To Continue One Day [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gróin Is Not A Nice Guy, Hurt/Comfort, I Was Bad And Purposely Gave Them All Non-Canon Ages, M/M, Past Child Abuse, death by childbirth, Óin Is A Good Brother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:36:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Óin hadn't seen either of his parents in years. Bumping into his father, Gróin, quite by chance, he swiftly discovers that he has a little brother whom his mother died bringing into the world...and that his father isn't the same dwarf he once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Killer

Óin watched the golden flames send little sparks up the chimney of the tavern. The tavern was quiet, nearly empty, save for the sound of footsteps coming closer to him. He hoped there wouldn't be any trouble. He'd had enough of that already, patching up the injuries that Dwalin seemed to enjoy getting as they'd travelled with Balin to see if there was any metalwork needed doing in Bree. Still, they'd made a tidy bit of gold and Óin felt content with the month.

"Don't mind if I sit nex' t'you, do you, laddie?"

"Nah, you're alright. I'll be off in a bit."

There was a pause then the stranger chuckled. "Don't ye reco'nise yer own da?"

Óin swivelled his head. Red hair, burning blue eyes... "Da! What're you doing here? I haven't seen you in years!"

"Well, your mam and I, we travelled 'ere and settled down."

"You never even sent a raven. I thought you was dead."

"No, well." Gróin examined his hands and gruffly cleared his throat. "Your mam passed, see and I couldn' bring m'self to leave her 'ere alone and didn' fancy sendin' you a raven to tell you, so.."

"Mammy's dead? How?"

Gróin scowled. "She was killed. But I'm dealin' with that, don't you worry. How about I buy ye a drink, lad?"

"Already got one, ta. Killed?"

Gróin's scowl deepened. "Aye. But I'm dealing with the little bastard."

There was something about the way his father spoke that chilled Óin's bones. Swallowing the last dregs, he glanced at him, "Da? D'you live 'round here?"

"I do. 'Ere, save yourself some coin and stay with me t'night. We've got a lot to catch up on,"

That was true.  Óin nodded in agreement. "That sounds good, Da. I'll have to be back here early, though..."

"That's fine, lad, just leave a note or something. So, how are those cousins of yours?"

* * *

 

Gróin's home was made of stone. It was icy-cold and Gróin snarled. "Useless boy! I told him to keep the fire lit."

"What boy?"

Gróin appeared to not have heard him. Instead, he raised his voice and bellowed. "BOY!"

There was nothing. Then a little thump and padding of bare feet. Then the boy came into view and Óin felt his heart sink. He was small, perhaps a foot or less in height, with messy red hair, big dark eyes, biting on his thumb. A nightshirt swamped his skinny frame and the way he looked at Gróin made Óin wince.

"I told you to keep the fire up!"

"Sorry, sir. I forgot how to use the tinderbox."

How old was this boy? Four? Five, maybe?

"You are worthless! You are not worth the loss of your mother, you useless, stupid brat!"

"I'm sorry."

"Get to it now. And don't you dare forget how to use it this time."

Watching those tiny hands fumble with the metal box made Óin stare at his father. "Da, you're not serious..."

"I am. After what he did, he's lucky I didn't drown him at birth."

"How old is he?"

"Coming up for six. Hurry!"

"I'm trying..."

"Try harder!"

"Did...Did Mam die giving birth to him?"

Gróin's blue eyes were dark as they stared at the small redhead. "Yes. Not worth her life, is he?"

Watching his little brother struggle,  Óin turned to his father. "Do you have any ale?" He didn't want any, but a plan, a plan to help his little sibling, was forming in his head.

"Aye. Come on, let's have a cup and then we'll see if he's gotten the fire up."

With a last glance his brother's way, Óin followed his father, hoping that this plan would work.

 


	2. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Óin takes his chance. Balin is horrified. Dwalin just wants to cuddle his new cousin.

The boy's dark eyes were wide and fearful. "I'm sorry!" he pleaded. "I'm trying, but it's hard!"

"Shh." Óin soothed, carefully lifting him, though he tensed up and tried to shrink back. "Don't be scared. It's alright, little one, but you must stay quiet for me. I'm getting you away from him."

"But Mister-"

"He's asleep. Have you got anything you want to take with you?"

"The boy shook his head. "No."

Óin frowned. "Not even a pair of boots?"

"Sir says killers don't get boots or anything."

 _Of all the bastards in the world_...Óin shook his head and wrapped his cloak around his brother's tiny body. "Shush, little one. I'm going to take you back with me, where you'll be safe."

"Safe?"

"Yes. Nobody will hurt you with me around, I promise you."

The boy said nothing, but dug his fingers into the woolen coat his brother wore and remained silent and thoughtful as he was taken further from his father.

* * *

"Well you took your time." Dwalin smirked as his younger cousin entered the room. "What distracted you? A fair maiden with a lovely pair of-"

"Shh!" Óin hissed. "I have company."

"What kind of company?" Balin called from where he brushed his hair.

"This," Óin answered, and he revealed his brother.

"Ohh!" Dwalin cooed. "Look how small..."

"Is he your son?" Balin asked, carefully approaching them.

Óin shook his head. "No. Turns out this is my little brother."

"You met your father?"

"Yes. And he is a B-A-S-T-A-R-D to the little one. Mam died in childbirth and it looks like he thinks his son was to blame."

"You're joking," Dwalin said from where he crouched, trying to steal his new cousin to hold for himself. "Who could be a bastard-"

"Dwalin!"

"-to a little one like this? Let me hold him, Óin, go on."

"No. It's a miracle he lets _me_ hold him, let alone _you_ , you great lump." 

 "Where is your father now?" Balin asked.

Óin scowled. "He isn't my father. My father would never have hurt a defenseless child. The last I saw of  _Gróin_ , he was in a deep, drink-induced sleep."

 "I'm just thinking," Balin said, hiding a grin as he watched Dwalin stare down at the confused child, "maybe it would be best to head on now ere Gróin realises what's happened."

Dwalin nodded. "That's not a bad idea, actually. We'd be home by morning."

Óin looked down at the little one who gazed back up at him with serious, dark eyes. He nodded. "Aye, that'd be best. I don't want him staying here any longer than he has to."

"Does he have a name?"

Óin carefully took his tiny hand. "What's your name, little one?"

The youngling thought for a moment and then answered. "Boy."


	3. Home

Dawn was approaching. Óin's brother seemed nervous and twitchy. All the elder wanted to do was hug him close and promise him things would be better from now on, because it  _would_ , he would personally ensure it. But he was growing more vocal about being touched, murmuring 'no' and wriggling away. Currently, a pair of tiny hands were hidden in the wiry, thick mane of their pony. The little one seemed to like the gentle beast very much, though he remained weary of his family.

Gróin had _better_ hope his eldest never saw him again. 

A block of deep grey stone, the walls of Ered Luin tore Óin from his thoughts and he looked up, the metal gate guarding their home coming into view. _Finally_. The guardsmen  had it opened. Its ear-splitting  screech jolted his brother into full alertness and he glanced up at him fearfully.

"Just the gate, little one," Óin told him. "Nothing to be scared of."

"Óin, do you want to take him on home? We'll get your pony back to the stables safely." Dwalin offered.

The little redhead tightened his grip on the pony's mane and Óin shook his head. "I think he likes the pony too much, Dwalin! We'll take him back to the stables and then, um.."

He hadn't thought that far ahead. Where was the little one going to _sleep_? Should they tell the prince? And what did _he_ know about childcare? He frowned in thought, only stopping when he realised the little one was staring at him, big, bright black eyes staring in concern. He tried to compensate by smiling and the little one blinked in confusion before slowly taking his gaze away.

_Marvellous._

* * *

His little brother tensed again when lifted, but Óin made himself ignore this as he left the pony in the capable hands of the stable boy and followed his cousins. The small redhead kept wriggling and when Óin placed a hand on his back to keep him in place better, the little one whimpered and moved away. The three adults exchanged uneasy looks as Óin instead moved his hand to cup his brother's head.

_Just what had Gróin done?_

The little one gripped his scarf. Óin took it off and wound it around his sibling's tiny frame. He'd not complained of cold..nor anything for that matter, but he seemed to relax as the soft wool garment was tucked around him.

"Were you cold?" Huge black eyes stared into his. He wouldn't or couldn't reply. "Tell me if you need something," Óin told him, gently tucking some auburn locks behind his brother's ear. 

"Is it a rule?"

"Yes, it's a rule. Very important rule." He shouldn't have said that. Almost immediately, the younger one stiffened and looked up at him anxiously. "It's alright!" Óin tried to soothe. "I should've told you earlier. Don't worry." There was much lip-biting, but he eventually seemed to accept this and gripped the soft grey wool of the scarf, almost burrowing into the safety of his older brother's chest.

* * *

 

His home was also of stone. But his was of a ruddy, warm smooth red stone. His brother dared hold out a small hand and touch it as though to feel the difference to his own home. Unlocking the door, Óin loosened his hold and placed his sibling on the floor. There was a thick fur rug, thin in width, made from a member of a pack of wolves that had attempted to attack the village last year, leading from the kitchen through the hallway to the doormat that lay by the front door.His brother wriggled his toes in the thick warmth and looked around. 

Gróin's home had been cold and empty. No mirrors hung on the walls, no vases had stood on the windowsills. It must have looked very strange to his little brother, but he made no comment. 

Reaching down to take his brother's little hand, he took him to the kitchen. Here his brother's eyes grew wide. It wasn't a particularly impressive kitchen. It was small and the the table had a perpetually wonky leg. But it was a sight better than the kitchen back in his brother's old home.

The front door swung open and his brother reached for his fingers and shrunk closer as their cousins returned. One of them (Óin suspected Balin) had had the bright idea to go shopping for them.They brought with them the smell of bread, and carried a roasted chicken, a string of sausage and a box of eggs along with a bag of red apples and a package containing shortbread.

"Thought you might be low on food."

"You were probably right," Óin replied, trying not to smile. "I think I had a jar of old pickles, but I'm not sure he would like them!"

"We'll leave you to it," Balin said and he led his brother from the room, stopping only to smile at his new cousin.

His brother was happy enough to hold onto him for the time being . Big, solemn dark eyes stared into his. He was uncertain and little wonder.

"You can trust me." Óin said, willing the child to believe him. "I won't ever harm you, I swear it. I'm a healer. Do you know what a healer is?"

His brother put a tiny hand to his mouth and chewed his nails timidly. "Good people. Gooder than me."

"I'm sure you're quite good." Óin said, gently taking the little hand and squeezing it.

"Mister says no."

"Mister was wrong." Óin said, turning down to the little path that would take them to the stone house.

"When do I go back to Mister?"

"When fish walk and mountains fall." Óin answered.  
  


He shivered; the house was cold, breathtakingly so, and his brother began wriggling away from him, trying to escape his hold.

"Hey, now, what is it?" Óin asked, gently stopping him by cupping his head.

"Have to find fireplace."

"No, no. I don't want you to do that. You mustn't light a fire yourself, do you understand?" Nothing was said, but Óin detected bewilderment in the onyx-dark eyes. He gently brushed strands of red hair away from those dark eyes and spoke gently. "Fire is dangerous and could hurt you. Our... He was very bad to make you light them. Have you ever been hurt by fire, little brother?"

His nadadith showed him his palm. On it was a faded red mark. "Touched it by mistake. Mister was angry with me and told me I was stupid."

"You weren't stupid." Óin said, gently rubbing the palm with his thumb. He went to the living room and sat on the sofa, still holding his brother in his arms. The child made no move to escape, instead he almost relaxed completely. "My sweet nadadith."

"Not sweet. Mister says I'm vile."

"Mister is the one who's vile."

"Mister is good, he keeps a roof over my head and lets me have clothes 'n food 'n water."

Óin looked at the baggy, stained tunic and ripped trousers and bare feet. He looked at the thin frame, the skinny arms and legs with sharp joints. "How often did he let you drink?"

"Once everyday."

"That's not enough. Do you feel tired often, sweetling?"

Silence answered.

"How often do you eat?"

"Once everyday." His brother quietly answered.

"What did he give you?"

"Bread. Mine feels hard, but his bread looks soft."

"Hmm." Óin frowned. To do this to a Dwarfling... There was nothing more despicable! He hugged the youngling tightly, rubbing his back.

The little one flinched. "Ow!!"

"Sorry! Do you have a sore back?"

"Mister was angry with me."

'I'm going to hunt Mister down and kick his arse,' thought Óin rather savagely.

He tried to roll up the tunic to get a better look at the damage, but the little one whimpered and he decided to wait until he was tired to check.

"Do you mind waiting here on the sofa while I light the fire?"  
His brother quietly nodded and clambered down, kneeling upon the padded seat.

Óin lit the sparks and they caught onto the kindling, growing into a glowing, burning fire. The warmth flooded the room within seconds and by the time he'd turned, his nadadith had stopped shivering. He picked him up again and held him close, rubbing his cheek against the red locks. The hair was untidy and hadn't been cleaned in some time. He gently stroked it. It was soft and the colour could be beautiful if cared for correctly. He wrapped his cardigan around the young boy as he took him from the living room into the kitchen. How much food did he have?

* * *

 

He made up the kitchen fire, put a pan of water over the flames and then took him outside to the chicken run. The hens had been busy with the rooster , several fluffy yellow chicks ran around cheeping loudly. His brother looked amazed and Óin picked a chick up and let him stroke the little head with a careful finger. The neighbour nearest him had been keeping an eye on them and had been asked to put the eggs laid on the morning Óin arrived home in the special compartment by the run. He opened the box and counted four large, brown eggs, two of which he lifted out.

The pan was bubbling fiercely when they returned. Óin popped both eggs into the hot water and tried to gently comb his brother's hair. His sibling flinched, but kept still for him. The fine red locks bunched and tangled midway from the top of his head to where the tresses ended, just below his bony shoulders. Óin tsked softly and gave him a hug, reminding himself to check for conditioner oil as well as the cleaning creams for hair. He was certain he still had a bar of lemon soap left, waiting to be used.

He sat his nadadith back down on the padded chair and placed the eggs in an egg-cup, both painted a deep blue. Patterned on the shining surface were seven golden stars. He brought down two yellow plates and set an eggcup on each, bringing them to his brother. With a spoon and butter knife, he cracked open the eggs and handed him a spoon. He sat down to eat his and frowned worriedly to see his sibling wasn't eating his.

"Are you alright?"

"Who's this for?"

"You. It's for you to eat."

"But it's not my food."

"It is. Eat it up for me."

Tiny hands gripped the spoon. They were shaky and didn't seem to know how to hold the utensil properly, but Óin didn't mention it. He didn't care if his brother ate the egg by dipping his finger into it, just as long as he took in the nourishment.

The first taste seemed to surprise the Dwarfling. Dark eyes widened and a hint of a smile curved around the spoon. He liked eggs. Good. He would be the the proper size in no time, with any luck. The egg disappeared quickly, the brown shell the only remainder. Óin really wanted to give him another, but he knew that if the little one took in too much, he could get sick or even go into shock from the unusual nourishment. Instead, he placed the plates, eggcups and cutlery into the sink and lifted his brother up again.

He seemed to like him even more now he'd been fed and had had his hair brushed. Óin stroked the fluffy parts where the hair had tangled and took him upstairs to the bathroom.

All was well until he saw the bathtub. "No, no, no!" The little one burst out.

"Shh.. It's alright!" Óin said, gently stroking the lad's red hair. "I'll be very careful, I promise.."

"Don't want to be cold or drowned." His brother sobbed out.

"It won't be cold, I swear. I'll put warm water in it, of course!" Óin shuddered to think of cold baths..drowning. "Tell you what, what if I give you a mat to stand on in the tub and a sponge and fill up a pail with warm water? No need to go in deep water."

"Okay."

Glad this plan had been agreed to, Óin placed the bathmat inside the bath and found the sponge. Filling the bucket he used when washing his hair with warm water, he set that inside the tub too.

"Put your clothes on the floor for me. I'll put them in the laundry hamper while you're bathing."

This was done and Óin found the soap and scrubbed it over the sponge, creating a lemon-scented lather. While his brother experimentally scrubbed his arms, Óin placed the torn, stained tunic and trousers into the laundry hamper. He had kept his favourite tunic from childhood, a soft one, the deepest crimson. He didn't know what he would do for trousers, though. Did he have a pair of little breeches lying around? Perhaps... For some reason, he'd been very unenthusiastic about tossing out his old belongings after their parents moved away.

"'Scuse me." A tiny voice murmured. Óin looked over and bit his lip to avoid laughing at the sight. The little one was covered in suds, except for his deep black eyes and button nose.

"Close your eyes." Óin advised. He picked up the pail and carefully poured it onto the Dwarfling, getting rid of all the soap. He refilled it and dampened his hair. Picking up the vial which held a small amount of hair-washing cream , he rubbed it into the soft, darker locks. It smelled lightly of raspberry. He found the comb he'd previously tried to use on the little mane and placed it on the edge of the tub for later. After his hair had been rinsed, he found the scentless conditioner oil and massaged it into the damp tresses. He carefully combed it through, again and again, until the comb slid through his hair easily. Then the conditioner oil was washed out and Óin placed a towel on the floor and set him on it to dry the soles of his little feet and helped him dry his back and hair, frowning heavily at the sight of several bruises. He wrapped him in the towel and carried him to his bedroom. He knelt beside the 'memory chest' as he called it and opened it. He brought out the tunic and found, to his relief, a pair of small black trousers. His brother managed to dress himself quite well. He kept touching his newly clean hair as if in wonder at the feeling.

He didn't have work in the House of Healing that day and he wondered what to do with him. He supposed he would have to let him meet the villagers of Ered Luin.

There was a little yawn and Óin looked down. One tiny hand gripped the tunic and the other was curled up, rubbing at closed eyes. It was no surprise he was tired; he'd had a very big day and his little body was working hard to digest his food, food he'd never had before, it seemed. Óin lifted him onto a hip and took him to his own bedroom, going toward his bed and turning back the blankets. There was a spare room, but it had no bed, it had been sold long ago. The sofa downstairs was comfortable, but he didn't want to make him sleep on it. The little one stiffened as he was put down. He looked very confused.

"What is it?"

"'m not allowed a bed. Only a few rags."

Of course. Óin smoothed his hair back. "We might share it, you and I. Or do you prefer to be alone to sleep?"

He was answered by the Dwarfling shuffling over, all the way to the edge of the bed! "How big d'you think I am?"

A shy ghost of a smile replied. Óin lay on his side and placed the warm blankets over the tiny child, just to his shoulders and stroked his hair. Big, dark - trusting - eyes looked up at him, blinking slowly, until the little one finally fell asleep.

 

 

 


	4. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .

 

"No, Mister! Please! I'm sorry!!"

 

Frightened cries awoke Óin and he saw that the Dwarfling was threshing around, panicking in his sleep. "Wake up!" Óin called, raising his voice. He didn't want to frighten him using a loud voice, but he knew it was important that the lad actually heard him. Hear him, he did. His eyes snapped open and he breathed in and out, softly wailing as he inhaled through his nose and exhaled out of his mouth. He accepted the hug his brother gave him and his fear turned to anxious calm. He gripped Óin's tunic with a strong little fist and hiccuped as he remembered his new surroundings.

 

"Poor nadadith. You're safe, I swear. Safe with me. I won't let _anyone_  hurt you. Not one soul."

 

His little brother buried his head into his chest. His tight grip relaxed and he went limp as his worry left him. "What if Mister finds us?"

 

"Don't worry about him. He won't find us." Óin soothed, but he remembered, uneasily, that 'Mister' knew Ered Luin like the back of his hand. Luckily, the little one bought this lie and didn't ask any further questions. Óin looked at his bare little feet, still pink from his bath. He desperately needed shoes. And socks. Slippers, too. And he wanted to get him a few tunics and a new pair of trousers. Thank Mahal that fashion styles for Dwarflings hadn't changed since Óin was a lad. He gently tickled one of his feet and heard a giggle in response. He did it again, smiling to hear his sibling's laughter and then hugged him close. He wondered about getting a bedsheet and fashioning a sling to carry him in, but shook his head. His brother was a young lad, but he wasn't a baby. Still, he could sit him on his shoulders. Until his little feet were covered up and protected, he didn't want him walking around. Maybe he was being overprotective, but it didn't seem right, even if his brother had walked barefoot his whole life. He stood, holding him close to his chest and went to find his own boots. 

 

* * *

 

The market was nearly closing, and there were few people around. Good. Óin didn't want people crowding him. His brother hadn't enjoyed being on his shoulders, much preferring to be held on a hip. Óin supposed he couldn't blame him. It must have felt quite precarious, like he was about to be plucked up and stolen away. 

 

"He's a tiny 'un, isn't he?" The elderly dwarrowdam at the shoes and boots stall said. She had tough, dark skin and shining black hair, streaked with grey. Her brown eyes were very large and gentle and she held out a hand, calloused from her decades of hard work to the young child. "How old is he?"

 

"Five, nearly six."

 

"Ah, bless. When's his birthday?"

 

"I don't know." Óin admitted. 

 

Her gaze became sharp, suspicious. "Don't know?"

 

"He's my brother. Our parents moved away once I came of age to find a better life. It seems my mother was blessed with child, but she was called away after giving birth -"

 

"I killed her. Mister says." 

 

The woman scowled. She had clearly gotten the gist of the story and she didn't like what she now knew. "No, child. You killed no one. Can I see one of your feet?" To Óin, she explained; "Just need to measure his foot to see what he needs."

 

This took minutes and they were soon handed a pair of black boots. They were soft, but built to endure anything. 

 

"Five coppers." The lady said when asked how much he needed to pay. He gave her a steady look. 

 

"That's not enough.."

 

"You're a young man with a lad to look after. It's hard work raising a kid. Five coppers. Come along now."

 

This was handed over and Óin looked around for the knitted goods stall. Not for the first time, he wished he could knit. Finding it, he walked over and found a small mound of socks in different colours. He found a pair of tiny black socks and found a matching pair in white. He gave his brother the socks for safekeeping and hunted through the pile until he found one pair of deep blue, one of dark green, two more black, a grey and a red. Nobody would have to know if his socks didn't match his tunics. The eight pairs cost very little and Óin suspected that the lady from the boots stall had signed to the Dwarf operating the knitting stall about their situation. 

 

"Missus Amara!" Óin called to the dwarrowdam who ran the cloth stall. "Don't close yet!"

 

"There had better be a good reason!"

 

"There is." Óin gestured to the little one who was experimentally stretching one of his new socks. Óin gently removed it from his grip and smiled hopefully at Amara. 

 

"I suppose the little one is reason enough." Amara said, reaching over to tuck some of the youngling's hair behind his ear. "Óin, aren't you a bit young to have a child?"

 

"He's not my child! He's my nadadith."

 

"Has your da returned to Ered Luin?"

 

"No." Óin said, fervently hoping that their da never would. "But I met my father and he was terrible to my brother, so.."

 

"Say no more. My Alrik's always after rescuing little ones who need him. I can guess what happened." Amara passed him black linen and two folded up cloths; one a black wool and the other a green cotton. "Use the black linen for his trousers. Come back earlier if you need new fabrics... And try to get him to stop stretching that poor sock!"

* * *

It was only when they got back home that Óin realised they'd forgotten slippers. To try and help protect his nadadith's little feet, he put his new socks on him. He seemed surprised and wriggled his toes. 

 

"Yes." Óin said, gently kissing his brow. "Those are your socks to keep your little feet warm and cosy."

 

"Feel strange."

 

"Good strange?"

 

The little one thought about it. "Yes." He said finally. "Good strange, like when I have a full tummy and my mouth doesn't feel dry. And when you get your arms around me is good, too."

 

"Like this?" Óin scooped him up and, very lightly, hugged him. Tiny hands gripped his tunic and bright dark eyes gazed up at him. He felt how small and slight the Dwarfling was and hoped he could turn him into a broad, strong lad some day. 

 

"'scuse me?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"What do I do?"

 

"You? Why don't you go and play with the baby chicks?"

 

The younger one looked puzzled. "But that's playing. I can sweep or hit the carpet to get dust out or.."

 

"No, no." Óin said, gently setting him on his little feet. "Go and get your boots and I'll help you into them. The chicks like to play and it would be a big help."

 

He was given a rather doubtful look, but his sibling padded off, returning with his new boots. He let him help his little feet into them and watched him tie the laces. He seemed a bit unsteady on his feet and gripped the tip of Óin's middle finger as he journeyed through the kitchen.

 

Óin guided him to the henhouse and showed him how to open the door of it, so he could pick up any chick he liked. He smiled, watching his brother pick up one of the frantically cheeping little creatures and stroking the fuzzy, yellow head. He carefully touched the stubby wings and turned over the chick to tickle its orange feet. The last thing Óin saw of his sibling was the sight of him gently stroking the baby bird's tiny beak. 

 

He went to his old room first. It needed dusting, sweeping and de-cluttering and he had to be quick about it. Within 15 minutes it looked tidier and cleaner than it had and he went back downstairs to search for his nadadith. He found him closing the hatch of the henhouse, watching the rooster with a wary eye. Óin smiled at him, noticing his brother's arms were over his tummy. He sighed internally. It seemed he was getting a bad stomachache now. Poor thing. He gently ruffled his hair and led him inside, thinking that it would do him good to drink something like hot lemon to soothe his ache. He lifted him to place him on the sofa and jumped as five feathery thumps landed by his feet and a loud cheeping filled the air. Biting his lip to stop himself from laughing, he looked at his sibling. 

 

"Care to explain?"

 

His sibling wriggled. "I _had_  to! The Mister Bird was going to hurt them. He pecked at them and scared them, so I picked them up and..and... "

 

"And you hid the tiny things in your tunic? What if they'd scratched or pecked you?"

 

His brother didn't seem to mind this prospect. And Óin knew the rooster had probably only been pecking _near_  his children, not at them. But he thought of his brother calling the rooster the 'Mister Bird' and understood his brother's decision to protect the chicks. He scooped up the little yellow creatures and gave them to his brother. "The rooster doesn't mean to peck at his babies. He's a silly birdy who forgets that the chicks are there. At night, they burrow around him and he gets sad if his babies aren't there. Will you give them back to him?"

 

"He's a horrible mean birdy who drinks and gets mean and hits and says mean things!" His brother wailed, hugging the poor things tightly. 

 

Even though he knew the rooster couldn't hear, and wouldn't understand, all this Óin felt a bit sorry for him. He tried again while helping loosen the hold his brother had on the chicks. "Sweetling, the rooster only drinks water. He can't hit because he has feathery wings which only tickle. Just give back one chick and see what happens."

 

There was a silence. Then the little one nodded. He gave him one of the baby birds and padded after him as he set the little fluffy chick by the rooster. The rooster saw his baby and gently nudged his magnificent head against that of the chick's, pecked at the ground and walked away. 

 

The rest of the chicks were released back to their father without incident. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
